


A Minute Closer

by Vaecordia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, Cold War, Drug Use, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Psychological Powerplay, Swearing/Profanity, both of them being antagonistic assholes to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 22:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11171787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaecordia/pseuds/Vaecordia
Summary: It's not an easy relationship, and in no ways straightforward. Too much history for hatred, too much present for peace. So they play pretend with who they are.





	A Minute Closer

_1977_

He's sitting outside a quaint Parisian café with a half-smoked cigarette hanging between his lips and sunglasses almost slipping down his nose. His expensive jacket rests on the straw chair, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He turns a page of the cheap bookstall paperback in his hand, a diversion that cost him nothing and interests him even less. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth, exhales, tips the ashes into the ashtray. And he turns another page, and he kills some more time. But it's better than being trapped in a two-star hotel room that has space for a bed and a small suitcase, he thinks.

He doesn't look up when a shadow is cast on his book, he doesn't care to know who it is. Even if he already does.

"Mind getting outta my sun, Braginsky?" His tone is detached and flippant, only too used to these kinds of spontaneous meetings in foreign cities, places that are not their own playgrounds.

"I did not know the sun was yours to own."

"Last I heard, wasn't yours either. Yet you're standin' around as if you did," Alfred counters, flipping another page - this time, he's caught only half the words on the page, but he doesn't care about that. And then the shadow's gone, and the straw chair on the other side of the small table creaks slightly as the Soviet sits into it. A waitress scurries by and he orders a tea, Alfred turning a completely unread page.

"Is there more to where those came from?" Ivan asks, and Alfred digs into his trousers' pocket and draws out a pack of cigarettes. He tosses it onto the table, never glancing at the other.

"I'm guessin' you also need a light," Alfred said, placing his lighter on the table.

"How thoughtful of you," Ivan says, taking out a cigarette and placing it between his lips. Alfred takes his out, exhales, holds it between his two forefingers as he flips a page. Ivan lights his, releasing a puff of smoke before closing the lighter. He looks at it closer, before chuckling.

"Saigon," he says, reading the engraving under his breath. His eyes light in amusement, but they're too dark to be innocent. "Captain A. F. Jones. Is this lighter not somewhat outdated?"

Alfred doesn't look up, doesn't see, turns a page. "Don't know what you mean."

"Merely that the city no longer exists. Isn't her capital Ho Chi Minh City now?"

He's not getting any reading done, so he places the book on the table. "I've had the lighter longer than that name's been around." His voice is thin, jagged, and Ivan looks at the lighter. The sunlight flash on its surface.

They sit in silence, and Ivan's tea is brought. Neither says anything, careful not to upset the tangible atmosphere. They watch the people passing by, some chatting happily with each other in oblivious ignorance, others hurrying across the street to reach hot offices and stuffy meeting rooms. Alfred takes another drag, before he crushes the cigarette into the ashtray that's already half-full. Ivan fiddles mindlessly with the lighter.

"As nice as this little meet-up is, Braginsky, what're you doing here?"

He receives a shrug, so dismissive and cold and a _shrug_. "I thought I would find you around. As I did."

Alfred glares at him, but doesn't press further. He knows that if he doesn't get a straight answer the first time, he isn't going to any other time. He then glares at the bottom of his coffee, and finishes it in one go.

"Such a lovely morning, and it's 9 minutes to midnight," Alfred mutters in a mock imitation of a radio newsreader, more to himself than to Ivan. Ivan probably catches it, but he probably doesn't care to answer.

"How is _she_ , by the way? Have you seen her recently? After all, it would be only polite of you to see how she's doing - you did cause quite enough damage." He doesn't get an answer except another, more vicious glare. He almost finds comfort in how familiar that glare has become. "Well, perhaps Hanh is better off without you on her land." His words drip with amusement, and Alfred wistfully imagines a thin red line slicing across Ivan's too-pale cheek and too-large nose.

"How about we keep to topics we know aren't gonna make one of us flip a table?" Alfred hisses. When he sees that Ivan is about to retaliate, he adds, "Your whole economy is stagnating, and your figures are bullshit. Don't kid yourself."

Ivan's face freezes, and he turns away from Alfred. Alfred rolls his eyes, and Ivan fidgets with the lighter. He leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms. Watching the passers-by, the slow rhythm of Paris on a winter morning. So peaceful, and yet Alfred is ready to toss his coffee at the man - _stranger, friend, lover, enemy -_ at his side.

"I've finished my coffee," he states, standing up and fishing too many francs, tossing them on the table. He throws his jacket on, and without so much as another glance walks away. Ivan doesn't look at his cold tea as he stands and pockets the lighter, before he follows Alfred. The book is forgotten on the table, for someone else to pick up.

And now they're stumbling to Alfred's shitty hotel room with an old door and a lock that won't open. He jams the key in and rattles the handle until the door swings open. Ivan shoves Alfred in, before Alfred whirls around to face the door again. He tries to shut the door, but he finds it hard when there's a lingering breath on his neck and a wandering hand on his hip and they're drawing his attention away too easily. He tries again but gives up, and he's not sure the door locked properly, but he still turns and pushes Ivan away. And when Ivan hits the small bed, Alfred pushes him down and it's a mess of entangled limbs, of half-removed clothes, and they both taste like cigarettes - Alfred with a tinge of bitter coffee, Ivan with a softer taste of tea.

And the bed creaks under their weight, but otherwise they're quiet, their fight for dominance a smothered fire. But there's a distance between them, that both want to close up but neither can - maybe it's the fear, the distrust, the paranoia, the memories of long-gone days overshadowed by the clouds of their present.

And when it's over, _too soon, it's always too much, too little, not enough_ , Alfred sits on the soiled bed and tells Ivan to get the fuck out of his room, but Ivan's already half-way dressed, and he leaves without another word. Alfred stares at the door, before reaching on the bedside table where another pack of cigarettes lays, drawing near to emptiness. He reaches for his jacket to get his lighter, digging into the pockets. He frowns, and searches for his trousers, before digging those pockets too. His hands come out empty. And he remembers how the sun glints off the metal, followed by Ivan's sarcastic comment, the lighter that he never passed back to Alfred in his hand. And then he's putting his trousers back on, determined to catch the son-of-a-bitch on his way out, flinging the door open with too much force.

" _You fucking bastard!_ "

* * *

_1982_

"Well, Braginsky, ain't this some welcome?"

Alfred's tone is far too matter-of-fact for someone who was pinned to the floor with a weapon at his temple and ten other guns pointed to his back. His arm had been wrestled against his back, and Ivan waved at the officers holding him down. They drag Alfred up, one leg making an attempt at holding him up while the other hangs practically useless. It's bleeding profusely from the thigh, and some of the officers look concerned at the amount of blood loss and some look disgusted by the sheer sight of red - Ivan finds some irony in that. Maybe Alfred's artery will bleed out before they even get to the interrogation room, he'd be a lot easier to move around when he's not chatting merrily with disconcerted Soviets or shouting abuse at Ivan. Although Ivan would have preferred that his officers hadn't shot Alfred - his blood was now covering the floor, and he knew from personal experience that bloodstains were hell to clean.

"I guess you ain't even gonna welcome me, then," Alfred shrugs, or tries to as best he can when both his arms are held tightly. Ivan knows Alfred could fling the officers away from him at any moment, but that would probably earn him Ivan's gun threateningly in his face.

They can never touch each other, ever, -

_\- what about those rare occasions, guilty pleasures, secret encounters that don't count but mean so much -_

\- for fear of a nuclear winter, and so Alfred doesn't move and neither does Ivan.

"Did you really think you could barge into the Kremlin and get away with it?" Ivan asks with honest doubt in his eyes, seriously reconsidering his previous assumptions about the American being any mental match to him. If this was his plan and show of his internal brilliance, Ivan was far from impressed.

Alfred looks amused. "Yeah. Almost did, too, if it wasn't for that stupid vase." His eyes glide to a shattered piece of furniture, and they both know the vase had little to do with Alfred being caught.

Ivan almost rolls his eyes. "You are a persona non-grata, about fifteen people recognised you on your way in." Ivan is by now almost completely convinced Alfred intended to get caught, and had to smash a stupid vase to alert even the most oblivious of all of his presence.

"Well, not fast enough."

Ivan glares at Alfred, trying to decipher whether Alfred was playing with him, or whether he was just finding this somehow infinitely amusing. "Would you prefer I leave you to bleed on the floor, or would you rather get this over with and be on the first plane back to the States?"

Some officers look confused and offended at Ivan's flippant tone, _how can he let the American leave, that's against the rules, there's no way he can,_ but Ivan is the rules, and he makes the rules, and he bends them as he wishes.

Alfred shrugs with a smug glint in his eye. "Do what you wanna do, sweetheart, I ain't in no rush."

Ivan motions to the officers holding Alfred, and the American is shoved unceremoniously into a room. Ivan follows suit, and Alfred's soon slouching in a chair with his arms cuffed behind him. "Damn, you guys really don't trust me?"

An officer snorts. _"And the idiot is surprised?"_ He questions in Russian, and Alfred seems confused.

"You guys think I don't speak comm-" At the glare Ivan sent his way - _remember whose land you're in -_ he smiles and corrects himself, "Russian? _Sweetheart, the only reason I got this far was because my Russian managed to charm your sex-deprived women too easily,"_ he finishes off, in flawless Russian, with a satisfied look at the outrage on the officer's face.

 _"Leave us."_ Ivan gives a warning look to the offended man, who after throwing a glance at Alfred leaves without further hassle. The door slides shut. "Do you think this to be some sort of power-play, or perhaps is it a sick fantasy of yours? Or do you just have a twisted sense of amusement?"

"I'll leave that up to you to decide," Alfred grins, feral, terrifying, dark and tempting. It's sweet and it's poisonous, but a flash of a moment later it's the same innocuous smile he always wears. How much Ivan just wants to smash that smile deep into Alfred's skull, but he won't, because he can't, really _._ He takes a deep breath to calm himself.

" _Why did you come here?"_ Ivan snarls in Russian.

"Oh, so we're doing it the proper KGB way or something? That's cool with me." Alfred is too smug _and too young and too powerful and too wise for his age -_

 _"Why did you come here?"_ More forceful.

"I needed a holiday," he answers - _in English,_ always in English, too proud to sink so low as to speak another language even in a foreign land, unless he has to or has a point to prove. For some reason it irritates Ivan to no end.

Ivan tries to find the remaining scraps of his patience, because Alfred is just grating his nerves on purpose. _"I'm glad the Kremlin is obviously such a great tourist attraction to Americans, how did you find it?"_

Alfred laughs. "Pretty impressive, gotta say, just the welcoming party left a bit of room for improvement. I mean I get that it's the typical Russian welcome apparently, but you could ease down a bit. Not good for publicity."

 _"Glad to hear your input, Jones, but we have to press on a bit,"_ Ivan snarls, tired of Alfred's useless nonsense. _"You can either spend the night here, or you can be on your way home by this evening."_

"You got rooms for one? There's still a few things I'd like to see, although I've done everything I mainly came here to do." Alfred's eyes glint, his grin is far too wide, his stance - even with his hands behind his back and a shot-through leg - attacking and ready.

_He's done all he came here to do._

_He got what he wanted._

Alfred laughs as he watches Ivan's face morph into fury. Ivan slams the door on his way out of the room.

 _"Send him out of here!"_ He barks to the officers outside the room, still hearing Alfred's laughter behind him.

* * *

_1984_

"On some days you seem so very happy to kill me," Ivan states as he shifts his bishop three squares across, to threaten both Alfred's queen and knight.

Alfred scowls. "You'd be hard pressed to find a day I wouldn't want to kill you on, Braginsky," Alfred says, before picking up both his rook and king and castling, the tower protecting the knight.

"So why don't you?" He moves his queen ahead diagonally to Alfred's king, the board becoming far too cluttered for both their liking. "Check."

_Always check, have we ever finished a single game?_

Alfred sighs. He picks up his knight, moving it one forward and two to the side in front of his king. "We've been over this."

"I know that." There's a silence, and it's solemn and tense, too many things at the same time. Ivan looks like he's thinking about his next move - but Alfred can bet he isn't, his mind wandering everywhere else.

It stretches on too long, and Alfred shifts. "I've thought about it." Ivan doesn't move, except for looking up from the board. He says nothing. "Thought about what it would be like. How it would feel, look like, smell like. I always imagine it's in the middle of the night, my phone ringing, alerts sounding in the background. And when I get there all I have time to do is give the retaliatory order. I don't even think about it - I just see the stupid dots blinking on the duo-chrome screen, closer every single fucking second. And then I just put the key in, turn, wait. And I don't really feel anything."

Ivan is silent, not moving, Alfred wonders even if he's breathing.

"And then it changes, I'm no longer in a bunker, but outside, seeing the fire burn everything I am to the ground. And you're there," he adds, with a quizzical look in his eyes. "We don't speak. We're both fucking ruined, bleeding and exposed bone and quickly deteriorating." He falls silent. "It's... morbidly beautiful, to be honest."

Ivan smiles at that. "I'd imagine it would be." And he looks back at the board and knocks off a pawn with his rook.

Alfred frowns. "You know, I could use something to drink." He stands, and wanders into the kitchen. He returns with a bottle of Jack Daniel's in one hand and two diamond-cut whiskey glasses in the other. "If you want some of this, you can, if you want vodka, get it yourself." It's not like he needs directions anyway, he knows exactly where everything is. Like Alfred knows where everything is in Ivan's house. Ivan just eyes the offered drink and decides against it, in turn standing to go into the kitchen and finding his preferred poison easily.

He comes back. "You are an outstanding host, Alfred, you know that?"

Alfred scoffs. "I don't _host_ you, _you_ show up and _I_ don't let you die of exposure outside my door. Know the difference."

They both sit back down and pour their respective drinks.

"It's your turn, I believe," Ivan says.

Alfred nods and moves to take one of Ivan's pawns. "Who do you think would start it?"

Ivan looks at the board for a long moment. "Neither, if I'm honest. If we were to, we already would have."

"You're awful confident about that."

"Years of experience beyond yours, Alfred. In a stalemate like this, where we both know there would be no winners at the slightest tilt of balance, where neither of us really has a real, concrete reason to, where neither of us has yet done so, I don't think we will. The balance between two powers or power-blocs is either stable or unstable. Ours is shaky, at its worst."

"Never thought I'd see the day you took the optimistic point of view. Especially when the entire world is scared half to death of a nuclear apocalypse."

Ivan shrugs, and their game isn't progressing anywhere. "Tell me, Alfred, that you really believe that you could easily turn that key and stare me in the eye, and I will drop my idealism."

Alfred falls silent, fidgeting with one of Ivan's taken pawns between his fingers. Ivan moves a rook.

"You could have checkmated me five times during this game already," Ivan continues after a pause. "Although I've had four of the same opportunities."

The pawn cracks in Alfred's hand.

* * *

_1986_

It's not long before the FBI's car skids to a halt in front of a block of apartments. Alfred is the first out of the car, shouting orders for a specific building to be surrounded, and he's the first inside. His boss, of course, doesn't approve of his meddling with intelligence and national security - Alfred thinks it's a vital part of his duty as a nation, especially in a time like this. He's up the stairs, at the door, and then there's five weapons pointed at the door. The door of some unfortunate communist sunuvabitch who's gonna get his sorry ass thrown into jail or priority-mailed back to the source of Alfred's woes. He approaches the door, and aims the gun at the lock, firing twice. The handle and lock bounce off and he kicks the door open. It slams, and Alfred's inside.

It's a stupidly small place, with ridiculously few belongings scattered around. Whoever was here still lives here (although not for long), but the question is whether or not that person was currently in their apartment was another question. Alfred makes his way to the bedroom, and sure enough, he's met with the barrel of a gun.

He realises his immediate problem when he's met with the far too familiar barrel of a TT-30.

_It always has to fucking be you, doesn't it, you goddamn spawn of the bleeding red Devil?_

Alfred deadpans, and his first reaction is to almost take a swing at Ivan. He sees it vividly in his mind, Ivan's nose twisted and bleeding, and oh how he takes pleasure in that image. Ivan sees the liquid storm in his eyes as Alfred's hand jerks, and Ivan's grip tightens on the gun. Alfred's lip twitches as if he's trying to resist a grimace, but Alfred ends up sneering at the Russian anyway. He can tell the agents behind him who've just entered the room are getting confused.

Ivan says nothing, and Alfred's mood sours very quickly. The Russian's - _Soviet's, a_ _dirty red Soviet bastard_ _walking around freely in_ _America_ \- nerve-grating quiet is quickly irritating him.

"You better have a goddamned good reason to be here."

Ivan smiles proudly, and an uncomfortable shiver crawls up Alfred's spine. "Worry not, I am _not_ plotting world domination, if that's what you were wondering. At the moment. I do, in fact, have a reason to be here; however, it may not necessarily be one you'd like. I had to come here to retrieve something - personally." There's motion behind Alfred, and before anyone can say anything Ivan continues. "You won't find anything here, I've dropped it off already."

Alfred's seething, his right hand still holding the gun and itching to act. He tucks his weapon back into its holster, as does Ivan.

"Sir-?"

Alfred's eyes never leave Ivan. "I told you that next time you show up, I would take you in for questioning under _'suspicion'_ that you're a goddamn red bastard, didn't I?"

Ivan is still smiling. "Yes, I recall your saying that."

Alfred's anger flares at the offhand response, and he breathes in heavily. "Fine. You know what? Have it your own fucking way then. You're not even suspected, you're goddamn well convicted by now." It's Alfred's turn to smile, but it's cracked and flawed, he's not even pretending. His lips are turned up, his eyes are frozen. "I can promise you, you _won't_ enjoy this."

Ivan's voice is barely above a suggestive whisper. "You would know what I enjoy, don't you?"

It's all Alfred can do not to start a nuclear war right then and there, but his grimace doesn't falter. "Sure I do. I hope your boss likes having you stuck here for weeks because you were stupid enough to get caught, 'cause I ain't gonna let you leave until I've got what I want."

"And what would that be?" Ivan asks.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Alfred answers, and when someone moves towards Ivan Alfred holds up his hand to stop the agent. "I haven't got all day," Alfred snarls at Ivan and turns away, facing his team. "I suggest none of you touch him, for your own goddamn safety. He's gonna get in the car all nice and quiet, trust me."

"Shouldn't I have my rights read to me first?" Ivan quips, seeing the flat irritation in Alfred's eyes.

"You have _no right to be_ in this country, so you _have no rights_ in this country." Alfred turns away from Ivan, beginning to make his way out the door.

"But sir-"

Alfred begins digging in his jacket, digging out an ID card. More specifically, an ID card for the Central Intelligence Agency, and flashes it at the FBI agents. "For chrissakes, drop it; it's CIA business from this point on, all I need you guys to do is drive me and him to Langley." And with that, he leaves the group of confused men and Ivan behind.

Ivan chuckles, before making to follow Alfred. He passes the group of stunned agents, but turns back to them with a cryptic look on his face. It seems they're not used to a man with credentials in both agencies. "He's a unique kind of man, your Agent Jones, isn't he?"

* * *

_1988_

UN meetings are by far the most irrelevant meetings held these days, in both their opinions. Nothing is ever accomplished, what with every decision being vetoed by either one or the other. It's all just spiteful jabs and subtle hints of destruction, and they watch the world bristle. Every time one of those words -

_war, nuclear weapon, expansion, communism, idealism -_

\- is mentioned, someone scrambles to pick up the microphone and move on to the next topic. And it's a vicious circle, because whoever speaks, one of them is going to comment on it, and then it's back to square one.

But what happens after the meetings is an even wilder card. This time, they're in Alfred's apartment's bedroom, the heavy fog blanketing them in the reek of weed. Alfred lounges on the bed, spread out widely on the expensive sheets, a joint in his hand that he's lazily waving around as he explains something they've both lost track of. Ivan's heavy coat is draped on the bed under Alfred's head, crumpled to make another pillow. Alfred's bomber jacket is somewhere, and his military jacket lays half-open around him. Ivan sits on the floor by the foot of the bed, staring at the wall while Alfred's words swim in and out of focus. Ivan himself isn't usually prone to drugs, but it's becoming something of a habit with Alfred ever since the 60's. There was a time when Alfred would show up to meetings with overgrown hair and wearing the latest fads of his people and looking far too unkempt and thin to be a superpower, but it's now been twenty years and he keeps it out of other nations' eyes now. Other nations, except Ivan.

_But it doesn't count, because he knows everything there is to know. And vice versa, right?_

Ivan stands up, and Alfred's slow drawl reaches him. "Where ya goin'?"

"To open the window," Ivan states, his tone bland and his accent thick. "Stench is horrible."

"Nah dude," Alfred whines, rolling onto his side. "It's all part of it, you can't open the window."

"Part of what?"

"The _experience._ "

"Here I thought you would have been over this by now," Ivan sighs, but falls to sit on the edge of the bed.

Alfred laughs. "I thought you woulda been over this commie bullcrap, but you ain't, and I ain't, so here we are!" Alfred is silent for a minute while Ivan rolls his eyes. "Except it seems that you will be done in not too long, doesn't it?" He asks in mock curiosity. His eyes are far too happy for innocence.

Ivan glares at Alfred, who just has another fit of laughter. "Is your only aim in life to start arguments with me, even when we do _nothing_?"

He doesn't even think about the answer, his inhibitions far too long gone for that. "Yeah. You're cute when you're pissed."

Ivan nods, and takes another hit of his joint before moving to lay next to Alfred. "Am I, really? So you would prefer me to be 'pissed' more often?"

It's as if Alfred perks up at these words. "Man, you're easy. All I mean t'say is that it does me something to see you get all... like that," Alfred explains, his words as vague as his mind.

"Very clarifying."

Alfred sits up and stumbles up onto his feet. "Y'know what we're missing?" He doesn't give Ivan time to answer. "A good beat!" And he makes his way to his stereo, flipping through the mixtapes in the boxes in his bookshelf. His eyes light up, mischievous look in his eyes. He jams the tape in, and two seconds later a heavy guitar riff invades the fog, and a jerky drumbeat accompanies it. The words get drowned out in the fog as Alfred hops back on the bed. Ivan doesn't know how or when he ends up pressing Alfred into the mattress, but he does and it's full of teeth and claws and blood, the iron tasting too sweet in his mouth.

_"- here's my gun for a barrel of fun, for the love of living death -"_

Ivan has a feeling the song is appropriate for their situation, but he's too lost to the feeling of Alfred around him to really pay attention. For a moment he thinks about how fucking stupid they are, but the next moment Alfred flips them around and bites Ivan's shoulder _and it's all too much and too painful and too good_ and he's reminded of all the reasons why he hates and loves Alfred.

* * *

_1990_

"You're losing control. They're all gonna leave. You're gonna fall."

Ivan doesn't respond, but his grip on the pipe tightens.

"And you know that, don't you?" Alfred stands with his stupid fucking grin on his face like the cat who ate too many fucking canaries _and maybe he had -_

"Why are you _here_?" Ivan hisses.

A step forward, the grin widening, taunting, jeering and full of sharp teeth. "Had to see it myself. Gilbert looked awfully bleak yesterday. I had to see whether you were just as bad." Alfred looks Ivan over. "Hell, you're even worse."

"Glad to hear it." Strained and heavy, he doesn't want to fight, he can't fight, not now, not at his weakest.

"No you're not. You hate seeing me here. You hate my taunting. Right now, you hate me with every fiber of your being, don'tcha?"

"It does not matter if I do hate you or not," Ivan hisses, his patience wearing thin, thinner than spring ice.

Alfred's voice is almost melodic, an eerie, haunting melody. "You hate me here, reminding you that you've fallen-"

"I have _not fallen_ yet." And Ivan's control slips a bit, his grip tight, tightening, tighter. If he decided to act right now, there would be very little left of Alfred after he was done. How he wished he could act. _But he can't, not now, not when everything's falling apart and Alfred is right-_

"Whatever the fuck floats your sinking boat. But just know that once you _do_ fall, I won't be there to gloat, I won't be there to look smug, or to tell you 'I told you so'. I won't be there to help, I just _won't be there._ You have your own fucking self to blame for this, and no-one else," Alfred taunts.

Ivan snaps, and the next moment Alfred's backed into the wall with Ivan's pipe dangerously close to his throat. Neither of them are touching, they can't touch. They won't.

"You wanna start a war? Now? Of all times?" Alfred laughs.

Ivan's eyes search Alfred's. "Isn't this ironic?" Ivan asks.

"What?" Alfred says, not quite vicious but far from friendly.

"That neither of us won."

Alfred's expression morphs, darkens, his lip twitches. "What the fuck do you-"

"As you said, Alfred, I _'have my own fucking self to blame'_ for this. You may have won, but _by default_. Neither of us proved anything to the world, except that we can make a lot of weapons. You proved nothing, except that you could keep up this charade just a little longer than I cared to."

"I won fair and square, don't fucking turn this in your favour! I won - you have nothing, _nothing_ , left!" Alfred snarls. "You're disappearing, Ivan! Your country is dismantling, your golden Union is shattering! Fucking live with it and accept defeat!"

"The day you realise that you are a winner by default will be the day you've finally grown up, Jones." Ivan smiles before stepping away from Alfred. Alfred doesn't move, but bares his white teeth in a sneer that doesn't quite make it to his eyes.

And nothing has changed.

**Author's Note:**

> \- 1977: a few years after the Vietnam war, the subject was still extremely sensitive with Americans. Ho Chi Minh City was the new name of the former city of Saigon, but many American soldiers of Vietnam had lighters engraved with a message and their names (google search for "vietnam lighters" brings up a bunch of images and results for those). The Soviet Union published figures for their economy (GDP and such) but CIA research proved these figures to be exaggerated and false, hence Alfred's accusations of "figures are bullshit".  
> \- 1984: the Soviet Union boycotted the Olympics that were held in the US, in response to the American boycott of the USSR Olympics four years prior. The year before, President Reagan had referred to the Soviet Union as an "evil empire", increasing tensions between these two countries.  
> \- 1991: as many of you already know, the year of the collapse of the Soviet Union, and some still debate whether or not this is considered an American victory or just a victory by default.


End file.
